2011-09-27 - Mi Casa Est Su Casa
Jo stirrs from her sleep, the most comfortable one she'd had in a very long time, splitting hangover aside, though Priss was kind enough to help her soothe it down considerably with all the water she doesn't even remember having the day before. Finding herself on a bed, wrapped in blankets, Jo blinks in confusion and starts to look around here, "where am I?" She asks aloud, though she doesn't necessarily expect anyone may be present to hear her. After a few long moments, a gentle feminine voice replies, "My apartment. Feels so danged weird to say that. Anyway, morning." The source of the voice comes closer, and then a barely dressed and somewhat unfairly beautiful and exotic woman of clearly blended racial stock crouches down beside the bed, bringing her face, surrounded by a wealthy mane of ebon hair, into Jo's blanket-wrapped view. "I'm Priss. We met last night, at that bar. Remember any of that?" she queries, gently. Clearly this is someone familiar with drink-induced amnesia. "Apartment...?" Jo murmurs with uncertainty, still looking confused and as if she's having more of a headache then she lets on, pressing a finger momentarily to her temple, she quickly shakes her head and sits up. "Oh, waw, this is so embarrassing, don't tell me I drank myself unconcious...I can handle alcohol, I swear," funny that the first thing on her mind in this situation is to try and perserve her image as being tough. "I think I remember being at the bar, damn you're beautiful," Jo comments with slight undertones of jealousy in her voice, "well, I guess thank you for helping me. I could have gotten myself into trouble last night." Priss just offers a gentle smile without recrimination - or arrogance - at the girl's responses. She can understand feeling that need to defend her toughness all too well to critique it in another. "Don't worry about it. I was happy to have you over, Jo. And thanks." It would be rude to say nothing, but she won't belabor the point. "Don't be embarrassed, honestly. But here's my deal for the morning. You, up when you're ready. Shower is in there." She points. "Strip, there're like a half-dozen robes in there, so pick one when you're done. I'll come in, grab your clothes, and get them washed with mine. No trouble. After your shower, we can sit, have something to eat, and maybe I can fill you in on what hasn't come back yet." Showing a rather uncanny understanding of the difficulties in Jo's situation, she mentions gently, "You keep whatever you need to make you feel safe. Weapons, your money, whatever. But you really should let me help get you cleaned up. I /always/ feel better clean than not, anyway." "You're a cool woman, Priss, thank you. I really appreciate it." Jo murmurs, feeling a bit awkward at having required help to being with, yet finding herself in a comfortable bed isn't really something she can complain about, it was likely the best night's sleep she had in a while. "A shower? Waw...hadn't had one of those in a while, aside from the river, and I'm not sure how clean those water are..." Jo says with a wrinkle of her nose as she rolls out of bed. Having had a few moment to reorient herself, she looks a bit hesitant, "I don't want to trouble you with washing my clothes, I mean, I really appreciate it but it's not fair to you..." nevertheless she belies how badly she wants that shower as she does starts stripping while heading to the bathroom. "I have no weapons, I take care of myself without them. Trust me, I really am quite tough, it's not just for show." Priss wrinkles her nose at mention of the river. In New York? Ew, definitely. "It's no trouble, Jo. Don't worry about being fair to me." As for the rest? "I don't doubt you're tough, Jo. You're no victim, I can tell. Just don't want to push your safety boundaries." And any girl Jo's age who operates on her own in New York City /has/ to have them. After Jo is into the bathroom, Priss follows after her, gathering up the clothes as she goes. She searches every pocket, nook and cranny for things Jo would be upset to have go through the washer, then heads in to start a load. She did lie about one thing: there's no damned way she's putting any of /her/ clothes in with this filth, thanks. Sani-wash, definitely, with an extra half-cup of detergent. And double sheets of fabric softener. All because Priss remembers being almost as bad off as Jo. Someone helped her. Saved her and gave her life purpose. Least she can do is pay it forward a bit. But no way she's pulling this girl into her war. "You're really cool Priss," with that reassurance given, Jo is quick to get rid of her clothes, and just as one would expect from a teenager, they wound up on the floor while she rushes for the shower, quite eager herself to wash her body properly for a change, and her squeals about soaps, shampoos and conditioners from within the shower suggests she hasn't had a proper one in a while. She also takes her sweet time showering, it's 30 minutes before she's finally out, clad in one of the robes that Priss noted was there. Her hair all wet and brushed backwards, Jo looks absolutely radiant, and she smells a fair deal better. "Oh man, that was great! I owe you big time, Priss." While Priss looks after Jo's clothes, she'll find one switchblade, a few wrinkly dollar bills of 5s and 1s, some coins, and some makeup accessories that seems likely to have been stolen, considering the quality of the products. When the radiantly clean and ecstatic redhead reappears clad in one of Priss's robes, she'll find Priss herself in the kitchen, clad in a rather brief robe herself, probably having been too focused on other things before to quite note what it was the dancer was wearing. The items retrieved from Jo's clothes are in a small pile on the countertop 'bar' between the living room and the kitchen, in plain view for Jo's sense of security. "Glad it felt good. And believe me, I appreciate how good it had to feel." She makes no mention of Jo 'owing her one'; in her experience, that's just not how it is done. "Now. I figured you'd be pretty hungry, so I'm working on omlettes, sausage, and waffles. There's a tray of fruit over there if you want to get started. I've got milk, purified water, orange juice and pomegranet. And there're B12 pills in the big bottle there if you want them." She's not pushing, but it's a pretty healthy provision, likely lacking in Jo's usual junky street-kid diet. "Thanks for keeping my stuff from the wash," Jo remarks as she sees her things neatly set in a small pile on the counter, her eyes stalling a moment over Priss, "are you sharing this apartment with a guy? Or is this just for comfort? I'll try and be out of your way as soon as my clothes are dry, I don't want to be a bother," she remarks and approaches Priss, lured by the smell of a decent breakfast, "oh, waw! My mom used to make waffles..." Jo sounds a little bit hurt as she makes that mention, "I'd love to have waffles aain." She doesn't look too sure about the pills, but is very pleased with everything else, going to pour herself a glass of orange juice and pretty much drinking it in one go. "Not a problem. I do the same for my own stuff." Or she would, if she weren't better about taking stuff out of what few pockets she has /before/ putting clothes in the hamper. Whatever. She chuckles and shakes her head, apparently amused by Jo's question. "Honey, we came home alone. I don't share my apartment with any guy. I /just/ got into town, for pity's sake. And that would be way too much trouble." Because in Priss' experience, guys get way too clingy and controlling. Even the good ones, damnit. "You're no bother. Now sit, relax, and food will be ready shortly." She notes the pain in the mention of Mom, but does not pry. Jo will share, if and when she wants. She /could/ just read the girl. But she doesn't need to know. As Priss cooks, she nibbles on bits from the plate of fruit and sips from a glass of milk. It won't take long until she has a nice healthily oversized plate full of food for Jo, and a smaller plate for herself. Priss has a habit of a lot of smaller meals during the day to keep that power plant of hers running. She also has a much more stable supply. "Get yourself another glass, and meet me at the table." she mentions, and heads for the table. She doesn't bother 'setting' the table, but does lay out a small pile of silverware on a pair of napkins beside the plates. Jo seems a bit mesmerized by Priss' cooking, obviously it's not something she's accustomed to seeing, or smelling for that matter. "This smells great!" Jo compliments the chef as she pours herself another glass of juice, and then heads to the table, her eyes set on the plate and she digs right in without any hint of table manners. Priss merely smiles amusedly without giving voice to the chuckle as she watches Jo dig in with such enthusiam - and lack of table manners. She watches for a bit, then busies herself eating her own share, notably less than what she has served her redheaded guest. Must keep that inner furnace properly stoked, as it were. Being such a hedonist herself, Priscilla's cooking is quite good: she insists on it, as she is the one who is usually eating it, and she only wants to eat what tastes good. "Glad you like it." she comments a little later. There's definitely nothing maternal in Priss' manner. At least, big-sisterly. (Do they make mothers that look, dress and act like Priss? Oi!) Later, after both have eaten and cleaned up a bit, Priss will head back to the laundry room to switch Jo's clothes to the dryer, then return and motion towards the living room seating area, complete with sofa, loveseat, overstuffed chairs and the like. "Feeling better, then?" Cleaned up, well-rested, well-fed, and well-hydrated, she's betting Jo feels better than she has in months. "How's your memory of last night coming?" she queries. After all, hard to start the conversation about 'best friends' and all of that if Jo doesn't remember it. For the moment, Jo is most certainly focused on nothing aside from the food before her and her glass of juice, and she most certainly has her fill in a most unladylike manner. "Ish veww goo," Jo mumbles almost coherently with her mouth full as she keeps shovelling more of the food in her mouth, looking quite pleased. "I feel a whole lot better, I haven't had a meal like this in forever, where did you learn to cook? I thought it's supposed to be real hard." Tilting her head slightly and focusing, Jo murmurs, "I remember you bought me a drink, and got me some money for my fix, and that's way cool of you. Actually, if you like I'll share with you some of the stuff, Tony is good for his products, nothing that will kill you and the high is really sweet." Priss tries not to chuckle at Jo's enthusiasm, and her mumbled, garbled response. Instead, she just takes pleasure in the girl's happiness and enjoyment. It's worth it. "Glad you liked it. I learned to cook at a few of my homes when I was a kid. I polished up a bit when I was overseas. It's not really that hard, and I was pretty motivated: I'm the one who eats what I fix, most of the time." Priss answers with gentle dismissal of difficulty. No need to worry about that. Priss nods as Jo recounts what she can remember of the night before. "That's OK, Jo." She won't bore the girl with her own philosophy of 'high on life.' She of all people knows how damned like bullshit that would sound to soemone in Jo's position in life. "You said you wanted to be friends. So I brought you here last night, then the drink hit you that hard. The choice is yours. You're sober now. But if you want a place to stay, you can stay here. It's a place with a roof, good food, showers and laundry. My only rule is simple: You don't steal from me. What you do outside of here, your call. But you don't bring it here. This is home. This is a safe haven. So the dangerous shit stays somewhere else." Honestly, it's a pretty lenient proposition. "Seriously? I guess I was really drunk, so sorry about that, but even so...why would you bring me home with you? Why would you want to be my friend? Nobody cares about me," Jo looks something of a mix between surprised and suspicious, but Priss has been so good to her, she's mostly leaning towards surprised. "You mean it? I can really stay here with you? I don't really get a lot of money, so I don't know about paying rent..." Jo flushes slightly when under this setting its apparent Priss knows she's no stranger to stealing, "don't worry, I won't steal from you, I don't take anything from cool people." Priss shrugs her robed shoulders a bit at the question. "Why? I could give you some sanctimonious speech, Jo. But let's face it. You would never buy anything like that, not after everything you've seen." It might be a tad unnerving, the way Priss talks as if she really /knows/, /understands/, and totally respects the girl's perspective. "The simple answer is, I don't have any friends yet, here in New York. You were cool to me." That's the simple answer. But Priss doesn't stop there. "I know what it's like to be on the streets, on your own. I know what it's like for a shower and a good meal and no one trying to get in my pants is like a little miracle. So, the least I figure I can do, having managed to make something better in my own life, is help out someone else." Priss smiles. "It's no pressure. You decide not to come back, I won't hassle you. I might try to find you, make sure you're OK, that not coming back was /your/ idea, and not someone else. But that's it. And maybe my helping you gives you a shot to build something for /you/, like I have for me. I figure it can't hurt to try." "Are you sure you're an adult?" Jo eventually asks, having a hard time believing an adult can be quite as awesome and understanding and not patronizing like Priss. "So...we're kinda in the same boat in regards to friends?" Jo asks with a slight smile on her lips, "I guess it makes sense for us to be friends then. It's settled." "I didn't realize you used to live on the streets, how did you manage to get yourself all set up then? You don't look like someone who would steal...is it really all just from works like stripping at that Hellfire Club?" Jo listens, and she nods, "I think I like that very much. If you don't mind then, I guess I will stay with you, having a real bed is much better than sleeping on the ground, that's for sure." Reaching her hand towards Priss, Jo has second thoughts, reaches for a napkin, and now presents a cleaned up hand to Priss, "if anyone ever bothers you, tell me and I'll kick their ass." Priss laughs brightly at Jo's question, clearly amused and pleased by her reaction. "Yep, I'm sure. That's what the law says, anway. Me? I just figure I'm a person. The rest is just stupid labels the squares buy into." She nods in agreement to the rest of Jo's points. They are in the same boat regarding friends. Not before, and maybe not later. But right now? Definitely. Priss nods. "Yep. I was in the foster care system when I was younger. Never got adopted." See? She meant it. "I turned eighteen, and that was that. I was out. I tried other stuff and was on the streets for a while. Then I met a chick who took me in. Gave me a place, a shower. And after a while, she set me up with someone who got me my first job as a dancer." So yes, apparently, dancing at places like the Hellfire Club is what turned her life around. She doesn't get into discussing underground alien hunters. That can be for later. Priss extends her hand, taking Jo's once the teen is happy with its cleanliness. "That sounds like a deal. The flipside is: anyone ever bothers you, don't forget I'll be there to help you. Girls have to stick together, sometimes." Pursuant to that, she then comments, "I also promise not to bring anyone home. No guys or girls from work. This place is just us. A safe zone. If I hook up with someone, I'll leave a message, and we'll go somewhere else." That way Jo never has to worry about some bedbuddy of Priss' getting grab-handy with the budding teen. "Finally someone who gets it!" Jo seems very approving of Priss' idea of labels and squares using them, giving a thumbs up at the very words. "Waw, I never thought about dancing like that as something to make a living off, always thought it was humiliating and something for guys to enjoy and make them feel better about themselves." Shrugging, she adds, "I went to one of those places with a friend, it was kinda ratty, and they kept making terrible comments about the girls. I swear, I almost got in a fight, but I didn't want to ruin it for my friend. We're not friends anymore, by the way." Jo nods at Priss' idea of sticking up for each other, though she doesn't expect to be needing help, then again she doesn't really know about Priss' secret side. "That's super awesome of you, Priss, you really are being too kind to me. I really hope I can repay you someday proper. I mean, with serious cash or something." Thinking, she has an idea or two on how she might come by some serious cash, depends on how things go. Priss just shrugs. "At the cheaper places, the dives and dumps, it can be really hard to make a living off of dancing. I got lucky enough to get into the better clubs, making a lot more money. And I was never stupid with my money. I knew what it was to be broke, on the streets. I made as sure as I could that would never be me again." Surely, if Jo were to drag herself off the streets, she'd do the same. It's a sentiment Priss is sure the redhead can respect. "Honestly, Jo, I'm just treating you how I would want to be treated. Nothing more." Priss offers. True, she's being pretty awesome to the teen, and she can admit that to herself. But she also has to make sure Jo knows she doesn't owe Priss a damned thing. "You owe me nothing, Jo. Nothing, except one thing. If, someday, you're doing OK and you spot a girl who is where you were, you think about helping her. Just like I'm doing. Like someone did for me. What you make of it is your business. What I made of my shot is mine. What that girl someday makes of hers is her business. But you'll know you gave her the shot." Pay it forward on the streets. "I guess that makes sense, it's all about luck, really, life is stupid that way," and that pretty much sums Jo's philosophy of life, not very elaborate, not very eloquent, but hard to argue against. "Fine, if I'm ever normal like, and actually have something of a stable life, I'll do that." But even as she speaks the words, there's something in Jo's expression that suggests the girl doesn't really think she'll ever have a normal life. Many would argue that Priss does not have a normal life. More than just a few people don't consider strippers - exotic dancers - to even be people, or citizens. Most view them as whores, and not even call girls. But Priss has money enough to feed herself and someone else, keep a roof over her head, and all of those 'normal' things. She even has comprehensive medical, dental, and opthamological. Heck, she even has life insurance, even if the beneficiaries are - as far as she knows - dead now. "Believe me, I know how impossible it can feel. It's cool. But for now, I'm your lucky charm. Now, you still hungry?" "I ate more than I did in a few days in just this one meal, thank you very much, Priss, I'm good," Jo says with a big smile on her face, reaching to caress her tummy. She does enjoy another glass of juice though, "I seriously could get used to this. Maybe you'll have to teach me how to dance or something, is there like a job you don't have to study anything for? I guess, like serve drinks or whatever?" To be honest, the best job Priss can think of for Jo would be maid, cleaning up areas of the club when they are not in use. That'd be something that could accept her as underage without a lot of bitching. "Most of the dancers at the Club end up serving drinks too. But I'll ask around, see if there's something that wouldn't require you to know or study anything particular." It can't hurt to ask. Maybe Raven will take 'pity' on the request. Emma is unlikely to do that, but Priss gets the feeling Raven knows what it's like to be down and out. Later on, after Jo is in her own - very clean - clothes again, Priss will make sure to give the girl a set of keys to the place, and show her where the phone is, including the answering machine bit - where she'll be leaving messages, if she has them. She'll also make sure to explain that speed dial 1 on the house phone is her cellphone, to reach her nearly anywhere or anytime. And Priss will probably get Jo to help strip the bed she slept in last night, so that they can launder the poor, abused sheets and blankets and re-make the bed later, fresh and clean for later that night.